The Game Of Petty Spirits, Part Six

[barefoot_bard]

Title: The Game Of Petty Spirits
Rating: M (Suitable for ages 16 and above)
Disclaimers: David Lakey is the creation of sharpiefan. Tom Carter, Billy Ivey, Dan Tisdale, and Nancy Owens are mine. Most characters who appear are actual historical figures. All other characters belong their respective creators. Neither The Incredible Journey of Mary Bryant nor Banished are mine. No profit is being made from this story.
Story summary: The line between good and bad is often blurred, but two Marines with the First Fleet learn just how easily that blurring happens. Australia, 1788.
Author's Note: There are going to be historical and canon goofs in this. Most of them are probably intentional. I apologise for those that aren't.


As he looked over the faces of the convicts gathered at a deliberate six-pace distance from the flogging post, Lakey found it hard, if not impossible, to believe any of them saw anything wrong with what was about to happen. The animosity toward the Marines was all but universal. That one of those Marines was being punished because of something a convict had supposedly done did not appear to matter. Lakey's gaze fell on the man he'd quickly come to recognise as James Freeman and wondered if he was feeling any regret for what was about to happen. Probably not.

"This man," Governor Phillip intoned, "is strongly believed to have been involved with murder of our blacksmith. No conclusive proof has yet come to light but it is known that he has attempted to carry out this terrible deed in the past. We do not know why this is so but I believe the answer is present in this crowd now. One of you has a connection to this soldier. A connection he has refused to divulge. This connection has spurred him to behave in a manner wholly unacceptable in a soldier and for that reason, he has been sentenced to receive four dozen lashes."

Hearing this repeated and seeing Carter standing patiently at the flogging post made Lakey realise it was truly about to happen. He was about to see a Marine flogged for the first time. The prospect made him feel sick. Even if it was not the usual outcome for the crime of murder - which the governor did not think was one Carter had committed. Which was entirely wrong. Who else would have done this? Nobody else had shown as much hate for the blacksmith as Tom Carter.

"This sentence will be voided if whomever is particularly known to this man comes forward," added the governor, and Lakey's eyes widened. He could not be serious. It was a generous offer. If, he quickly amended, unlikely to be taken up. Whoever it was Carter had killed the blacksmith for could hardly be expected to voluntarily come forward. There was no telling what sort of trouble such a person would end up if they did.

Silence answered the governor, who did not seem overly surprised. He looked to Sergeant Timmins and said, "Carry on."

From where he was standing, Lakey could also see Carter's bared back and the thin scars on it. He had been flogged before. That was perhaps hardly an earth-shattering thing to realise, given the Londoner's nature. It was strange that he still admired the older Marine despite fearing his temper and disliking his quickness to fight. Worse was his indiscipline, which even a raw lad like Lakey could recognise. Even a personal grudge against another man should be easy to avoid acting upon, if one was properly disciplined. A good Marine should not be like that, surely?

"One!" Major Ross snapped and the cat swished awfully through the air to land with an equally awful slap against Carter's back. There was no reaction from the Marine. Whatever else he was, Lakey had to admit he was a hard one.

"Two!" The major paced very slowly behind Sergeant Timmins, his hands clasped behind his back. "Lay it on, man. Three!"

It was a long time to forty-eight, and throughout, Lakey had done his best not to look at Carter's back as it became steadily more tattered and bloody. Trying to pick out a horrified expression amongst the sea of faces watching the flogging offered a sure distraction, but nobody seemed outwardly bothered by it. Who was it Carter was enduring this for? One of the women, obviously. He had shown no interest in the blacksmith before that wretched night. Who was the lass who'd suffered at the blacksmith's hands? It was not something Lakey had really thought about before, and he realised with embarrassment that he should have. It was so obvious.

"Forty-eight, sir!" Major Ross declared.

Carter hung heavily from his bound wrists, unable to bear his own weight. Blood ran freely down the unsightly mess his back had been turned into. His previously-white breeches were now stained heavily with it. Was he even still alive? Yes, thank God. There was a slight shiver as the Londoner tried to get his feet under him. Tried but failed. The effort was still a mark of his pluck.

"Get him down. The surgeon is waiting for him. Disperse this assembly, Major!"

"Marines! Unfix, bayonets!" Sergeant Ryan bawled. "Shoulder, arms! Dismiss!"

Lakey decided not to help Carter. Not that he'd be needed. Tisdale and Ivey were already on the job. He could do better, he decided, by helping to herd the women back to their huts. That way he might have a chance at spotting the woman who'd been ill-used by the blacksmith. Maybe, if he did, she might tell him whatever there was between her and Carter. He grimaced as he watched the women straggle past with what had to be deliberate nonchalance. It was more likely whoever she was would refuse to even give her name, since she had not made so much as a peep during Carter's flogging.

As he surveyed the untidy gaggle, his gaze passed over one lass looking just a little too pale. Most everyone had tanned noticeably since arriving here and yet she seemed nearly white-faced. Now why might that be? He picked his way through the loose stream of women till he was close enough to say, "That lass there. C'mere."

A few women looked his way at the hail, including the pale one. On meeting Lakey's gaze, she looked immediately away and lengthened her stride. That meant he'd been right in his suspicion. He pushed past a woman carrying a baby and managed to catch the pale-faced lass by the elbow before she could get too far ahead.

"I want a word with you, lass," he told her.

"Do you, boss?"

Lakey guided her firmly out of the crowd, resolutely ignoring the glares directed his way by the other women. "Yes. You know somethin' about what Carter did to the blacksmith. I need to know what that somethin' is."

"Do you, boss?"

Oh for - "There's somethin' between you and Carter. You looked a step away from keelin' clean over while he was under the cat. I reckon that'd only be 'cause you know him damned well and hate seein' all that happenin'."

She regarded him with obvious suspicion. "Do you, boss?"

His grip on her elbow tightened unconsciously. "Look here. I don't mean you or Carter any harm. But it's plain to anybody with a brain that he'd never have done for the blacksmith if there wasn't a reason. I'm thinkin' that reason is you."

"You do a lot of thinkin', boss. Shame it's all a wasted effort." She met his gaze without fear, though her face was still somewhat colourless. "Know wot I'm gonna tell you? Nothing. Know why? 'Cause you're nothing. Now let me go an' go think somewhere else. Boss."

"You listen here - " His patience with this foolery had just about run out. Whatever her connection to Tom Carter, she was not going to speak to him like this.

"Private Lakey. What are you doin' with that woman?"

Shit. Sergeant Ryan. Lakey let the woman's arm go and turned to salute. "Talkin', Sergeant. She was lookin' faint."

"Leave her to me," Ryan rasped. "Go about your duties."

"Sergeant!"

All he could do was salute again and depart, though he'd remember that lass. Later, he'd try talking to her again. Hopefully after a few hours and some thinking about it, she'd be more amiable. Maybe. Lakey glanced back before he rounded the corner of one of the open-sided artisans' tents and saw Sergeant Ryan taking a firm grip on the woman's arms. Her posture suggested unwillingness, as did the fact that Ryan seemed to be dragging her along after him.

That may not be good. Lakey about-turned, determined to follow and intervene if he had to, but the sudden appearance of Lieutenant Clark caused him to halt and slap his musket up to salute.

"Sir!"

The lieutenant seemed surprised to see him. "What are you doing, Private?"

"Returning to barracks, sir. Do you need something, sir?"

"As it happens, yes. There is a... gathering, where the vicar intends to build his church. Five men are needed to guard it. You're now in that detail. Go find Private Buckley and report to Corporal Macdonald. He's in charge of the detail. Carry on."

"Aye aye sir." Lakey saluted and hastened off, with a final useless glance in the direction Sergeant Ryan had gone. Of the portly sergeant and the convict woman, there was no sign. Shit. But he couldn't hang around, lest Mister Clark lose his temper. Feeling as though he had just missed out on something very important, Lakey doubled toward the barracks. Whatever that was, he told himself, it was nothing. It was nothing.

It had to be.

~

Four dozen lashes really took the starch out of a man. The first dozen or so had been easy enough to bear but after that, it had been nothing but agony. Mister Worgan, the surgeon, had tutted reproachfully at Carter for having drawn such a punishment. As if he'd had any control over it! Happily, perhaps, the pain of having his back cleaned, oiled, and dressed was absolutely nothing on the pain of the flogging itself. Forty-eight lashes sure left a mark that couldn't be forgotten in a hurry. Lying down flat would not be happening for a while, that was for sure.

It was evening when Carter walked stiffly into the barracks tent and made his halting way toward his cot space. Mister Worgan had kept him a while so the first dose of laudanum could sink in properly and in consequence he'd slept for a couple of hours. His return now passed unremarked on, though Tisdale offered him a fleeting grin as he settled carefully onto his cot. It was just as well. He wasn't out for recognition, whether good or otherwise. Maybe it'd be different if he'd actually done what the officers accused him of. Or maybe not. It probably didn't matter anyway. He shifted his coat - left there neatly folded by Tisdale - over onto the worn lid of his sea-chest and stretched slowly out onto his stomach, mindful not to move too much or too suddenly.

"Wot a day, eh?"

Tisdale looked up from polishing his crossbelt plate and smirked. "Aye. Worst of it's over though, it is, so it oughta be clear marchin' on from here."

"If there's any luck, aye. You seen Ivey? I gotta ask him somefin - "

"Christ, look who's comin'," Tisdale interrupted, as Buckley came hurrying into the tent, an intent, perhaps even eager, expression on his ugly face.

Who was coming? Carter eased himself carefully up into a sitting position, mindful of his back, and looked over in time to see Buckley abruptly stop just past the tent's entrance flap and announce, "Catherine McVitie, please."

All eyes turned toward Corporal Macdonald's cot space, where he and his lass were sitting. Whatever conversation they were having was earnest enough that neither paid Buckley any mind. Or, Carter thought, they simply saw fit to ignore him. Which was of course more than fair.

"Kitty, you are to come with me right now please - "

Macdonald did not even trouble himself to look over his shoulder. "We are talking."

" - because I have orders to escort you to Major Ross immediately - "

"We are talking," Macdonald repeated with obvious annoyance in his tone.

"So if you don't come with me right now - "

Carter barely suppressed a whistle of admiration when Macdonald sprang up from his cot to face Buckley. Maybe the lad had some pluck after all! "We are talking, man!"

"Because my orders also include the right to use force, if - "

"Private Buckley!" Sergeant Timmins' unexpected shout brought an immediate halt to what had promised to be an entertaining spectacle. Carter found himself feeling distinctly disappointed. He'd have loved to see Buckley get a thumping from somebody else. Somebody who wasn't himself or Tisdale.

Timmins stalked toward the middle of the tent, his hawk-like gaze fixed on the motionless Buckley. Who, Carter noted with private relish, could not look the sergeant in the eye. Well. It went without saying that anybody with rank could much less bloodily handle Buckley, didn't it? If it had been Carter intervening here, Buckley would already be on the floor with a busted nose.

"He has to share his woman. But at least he has one to share. You do not. You never will be Major Ross's pimp because you're a very ugly man. What are you?"

"A very ugly man, Sergeant."

"Inside and out. Now go back to Major Ross and tell him that Catherine McVitie will be with him in half an hour. Tell him that Sergeant Timmins has given his word on that."

"Sarge."

"Go."

Buckley saluted and, with an unhappy "Sarge!" he fled. In the silence after his departure, Carter and Tisdale exchanged grins. It was nice to see somebody set that smug bastard down a peg. Especially over something like this.

"Half an hour," Timmins said to Macdonald, before turning back toward his bed space.

"Sarge."

Tisdale lounged back on his cot, his face wreathed in smiles. "That was somethin', that was, an' I'm glad of it finally happenin'."

"Aye. Serves the little weasel - "

"Take off your sash," Buckley demanded, storming abruptly back into the tent and flinging his musket down onto the nearest empty cot. He looked dead at Timmins even as he fumbled to unfasten the buttons on his shoulder epaulettes.

"Take off your sash. I'm sick of being treated like shit!" With his crossbelts off, Buckley flung them down and struggled to get out of his coat. "Take off your sash and fight. Man to man."

Timmins stood calmly across the tent, filling his pipe and offering no reply. What Buckley was doing was the height of stupidity. Even for him. Carter glanced at Tisdale with lifted eyebrows and a hopeful grin. It was stupid and ill-advised, but it was as plain a display of Buckley's own idiocy as could ever be made. He thought he was a man. That was the most ridiculous part of it all!

"Christ, I've a mind to scrap wiv him in the sarn't's place," muttered Carter, to which Tisdale simply nodded and sat back expectantly.

"No," said Timmins and looked down at his pipe.

"Take off your sash and fight me, you bloody coward!" Buckley, red-faced and hot, was trying to get his waistcoat unbuttoned. Everyone was watching him closely, Marines and their women alike. They all disliked Buckley in their own ways. Funny how the idiot resented the treatment he got, thought Carter, when that treatment was only offered in response to how he behaved himself. When, like now, he proved himself to be a brainless, self-centred jack's arse.

"Right," said Timmins at length, setting his pipe down so he could untie the knot of his sash.

No one spoke now. Not even Carter. The sergeant coolly stripped off his shirt and set it aside, then just as coolly advanced toward Buckley. And, to Carter's private surprise, casually assumed a pugilist's stance. Oh, oh, this was going to be good. He glanced at Tisdale again and grinned. What a deep piece of trouble Buckley had just gotten himself into!

"Proceed," Timmins told his prey, and waited.

Buckley's confusion at the sergeant's unruffled bearing was only brief. He rushed forward and was easily shoved along by Timmins. An expressionless Corporal Macdonald caught the stumbling fool and gave him a push back in Timmins' direction, where a hard slap to the face awaited him.

Oh yes, thought Carter, sitting carefully forward on his cot to watch this glorious spectacle unfold. This was going to be ever so fun to watch. Short as the fight turned out to be, anyway. Buckley never had a chance. The one-sided scrap soon ended with him lying flat on the floor, his face bloodied. He'd had enough. Conversations slowly resumed as the defeated Marine picked himself up and quietly re-dressed before making an equally-quiet escape. He wasn't going to be missed.

Carter directed a grin in the sergeant's direction. "Cor, s'like watchin' Dan Mendoza fight, Sarn't!"

Timmins did not dignify that a response but he would hopefully appreciate the compliment. With the excitement over, the tent's atmosphere was returning to normal. Pleased at the outcome yet disappointed it had not lasted long, Carter lay carefully down onto his side. Maybe it would serve as a definite sign to Buckley that he would not get away with much, if anything, in future. It was definitely something to hope for.

~

The lantern did not give off much light and that made it difficult to make a decent search. He hadn't seen that lass since Sergeant Ryan had taken her off and neither had any of the other women. Though of course they wouldn't have told him even if they had. Which was why Lakey was carefully looking into every nook and cranny of the colony he could think of, hoping with decreasing spirit to find her. It didn't help that he did not know her name, of course. Nobody at all seemed willing to give him even that much information.

It made for a lonely, dispiriting search. In a way, he was not even sure why he was bothering. Was he that keen to be snubbed a second time? Clearly, he was. Why else was he still at it? It wasn't like anybody would thank him for making such a devoted effort. Nor was any of this likely to spare him when his role in Carter's flogging was eventually discovered. In fact, merely thinking about that made Lakey sigh. His life would be worth less than half a farthing then. He knew it.

Raised voices coming from the little hut belonging to William Bryant, the fisherman, drew him out of his gloomy thoughts. Now what was going on down there? He stirred himself back into motion, not having realised he'd drifted to a halt. Investigating would offer a distraction to his fruitless search for Sergeant Ryan's lass. If nothing else.

"What's goin' on here?"

All conversation in the hut instantly ceased upon Lakey's appearance at the door. Bryant and his wife were, or had been, arguing over something. They were standing beside a roughly made table, while a second man sat on a bench next to a woman whose back was to the door. All but the woman on the bench turned sharply to glare at the unwelcome interloper but none of them offered a reply to his query.

"I asked you lot a question. What is going on here?" Not that he expected a response, really. He looked at the woman with her back to him and frowned. "You, lass. You're the one Sarn't Ryan went off with, aren't you?"

"We don't knaw what you're talking about," said Bryant's wife with open disdain. "You weren't invited in, boss, so guss-on."

Lakey shook his head. "Not till I know what's happenin' here, because somethin' damn sure is. Turn round, lass. I like seein' the folks I'm talkin' to."

"She don't like sodgers," Missus Bryant informed him.

"Neither do I, at the minute," Lakey retorted. "Turn round, lass. Please."

A very long minute passed before she slowly shifted around on the bench so she was facing him. It was immediately clear why they had not wanted her seen. Her right cheek was badly bruised, with a few smaller bruises on her chin and part of her left jaw. A gash ran across the bridge of her nose and there was a cut high on her forehead. She looked, to Lakey's eye, the very picture of quiet misery. He knew in a heartbeat who had to be responsible for this and his temper, ordinarily very difficult to spark, began to rise.

"Has she been to the surgeon?"

William Bryant scoffed. "Course she hassen't, boss. We baant stupid. Surgeons ask questions."

Lakey took a moment to gather his composure. If they hadn't taken the poor soul to the surgeon, there had to be a reason. A better one than what Bryant offered. Which meant he would get nowhere by insisting on that very course of action. So he had to improvise and fast. Who in the colony would be best able to...

"You," he said, pointing with the lantern at the man on the bench. "Run for Private Carter. Now."

"Not a chance - "

"Do it!"

The man was off like a shot, blessedly deciding not to argue in the face of Lakey's sudden anger. He let out a long breath, then leaned his musket against the wall by the door. The lantern thunked very lightly when he set it onto the table before shedding his crossbelts. It probably wasn't wise to disarm himself like this, but the circumstances were unique enough that he felt it couldn't be helped.

"If there's a fire in here, get some water on to boil. I'll need clean cloth and some vinegar in a bowl. C'mon, I know you got some here. Fetch it out. I don't need a lot." He stripped out of his coat and draped it around the lass's shoulders. She flinched and tried to shake the heavy wool garment off, but Lakey said, "C'mon, be easy, lass. I'm not here to hurt you."

"That's wot the other bastard said," she muttered.

"Good thing I'm not him, am I?" Where the hell was Carter? This was beyond Lakey's ability to deal with, for all he was valiantly trying. One of the Bryants grudgingly delivered a little tin bowl with a small amount of vinegar in it, which Lakey accepted only to set aside. "A mug of warm water, please. And clean cloths."

The bruised-up woman shied away from his fingertips when he tried to brush some hanging strands of hair from her face, the better to see how bad the damage was. As much as he could understand her unease, he was here to help her, for God's sake. What part of that was not obvious?

The muted sound of running footsteps outside caused him to look up. Tisdale came barrelling through the door, hatless and unarmed. His appearance was a surprise. What in the hell was he doing here, when Lakey had sent for Carter?

"Tom's comin'. He ain't movin' so quick, he ain't, but he'll be here in a mo." The ex-soldier crossed the planked floor toward her without so much as a glance at the Bryants, who were naturally glaring at this new unwelcomed guest. "Christ, Nance. Who is it done this?"

"Not here," the woman told him curtly, and Lakey immediately was suspicious. Without, perhaps, any right to be. If she seemed almost glad to see Tisdale, she was definitely relieved by Carter's arrival a moment later.

"Nance!" The Londoner burst out, his face clouding upon seeing her. "The bloody hell's 'appened? You all right?"

"Hot water," William Bryant interrupted as he placed the steaming pot onto the table. "Boss."

Glad for a distraction, Lakey busied himself with pouring some of the water into the tin bowl with the vinegar in it. He soaked a clean square of linen in the mixture, wrung it out, and offered it to the woman who was apparently called Nance. "For your cheek," he said, though she didn't appear to have heard him.

"We'll talk of it later," she told Carter, who settled himself onto the bench beside her. She seemed to lose the sullen air of defiance which Lakey had sensed on his own appearance. In fact, her obvious relief at Carter's presence was shown when she leaned against his shoulder and let him curl his hands around hers.

"If it is who I fink it is, he's a dead man an' all," said Carter darkly. "I don't need to know the story, do I, 'cause it's plain's day on your face, Nance. If I swings for it, I swings for it. But by God I'll - "

"The hell, Nancy? You've took up with a sodger, hassen't you?" William Bryant demanded with a disbelieving frown on his face.

Nancy breathed out a long sigh and what she said next brought the whole room to an immediate halt. "I haven't. Tom is my sister's husband. We're family."

The linen square slipped unnoticed from Lakey's suddenly nerveless fingers. Those few words had struck him utterly dumb. All, he realised with an internal lurch, was strangely clear. Carter's hatred and pursuit of the blacksmith, his murder of the same, and his unflinching acceptance of the punishment for that crime. The reasons for all that were plain now. Lord. He wasn't sure if he could excuse what Carter had done, even in the face of this revelation, but now he understood it all.

Alongside that understanding came the vague sense that, despite what Carter had done, Lakey was somehow in the presence of the better man. Clearly, he had a lot of thinking to do and none of it could be done here. Anyway. He felt suddenly like he was unwanted. Intruding upon something in which he had no part. Without a word to any of them, the young Marine crossed to the door, collected his musket, and went out into the night.